The Songs of the Kings: A Novel Page 18

  2.

  Odysseus was told of their leaving together, just as he was told of the unearthed corpse. Nothing that happened in the camp escaped his knowledge; he ran the entire Ithacan contingent on the lines of an information and security unit. He too had a good idea whose body it might be. Obviously Phylakos had blundered again. But there was nothing to be done about it now, in daylight. In any case he was too busy. He was in constant attendance on Agamemnon during this period. The King was not sleeping well and his moods were constantly changing. The tearful self-righteousness and patriotic fervor were all right, all to the good in fact; but at times he was sunk in a kind of stupor, deaf to any voice; and every now and again—most dangerous of all—he seemed to gasp for air and look upward, as if seeking guidance from the gods. As far as Odysseus was concerned, the gods had already delivered. He did what he could to keep the King isolated from any who might give him bad advice. It was fortunate that Agamemnon could no longer stand the sight of his diviner, Calchas.

  It was a question, really, of substituting terms, and in a way Odysseus enjoyed the intellectual stimulus these encounters with the King provided. On the one hand there was the desire for power and loot, on the other the deliberate killing of an innocent. If you softened the first by mixing in notions of public service, the need for living space and wider markets to serve a growing population, and submerged the second in the heavy burden of command, the problem ceased to exist, they became the same thing, they blended into a single notion of painful duty. How Agamemnon loved it, this painful duty, how he drank it in, how it soothed him. Therapy, really. Of course, after a while things started to slide apart again, and the King became confused and sometimes gasped for air; then some further restoration work was required.

  He was coming from the King’s tent after one such maintenance session, on his way to check up on the Singer, when he had this thought and it stopped him in his tracks. It was just a question of concepts. It came to him like a shaft of light. It’s all conceptual! The driving force in human society was not greed or the lust for power, as he had always thought, but the energy generated by juggling with concepts, endlessly striving to make perceptions of reality agree with them, to melt things together, iron out problems, harmonize warring elements, what was the phrase he was looking for? Eliminate the contradictions. They would rule the world who knew this and used it.

  As he stood there, full of grateful wonder at the insight, he heard from somewhere ahead of him a hoarse, irate shouting interspersed with shriller tones, a double act that everyone in the camp was familiar with by now. Those two clowns again, he thought. It didn’t seem possible to go anywhere without bumping into them. He resolved to go straight past the pair without pausing, but when he came in sight of them he was arrested by what looked like a superstructure of foliage on the smaller man’s head, and he stopped, almost involuntarily, to see what it might be.

  “My small friend and I are offering you the chance of a lifetime,” Ajax the Larger shouted, looking furiously at the small knot of spectators. “We had selected precious cups and tripods and shining cauldrons as prizes for the winners of the Games. But then we thought, we thought . . .” He paused, his huge sun-reddened face fixed in concentration: he had forgotten for the moment the reason the two of them had agreed on.

  As usual, his dwarfish companion came to the rescue. “We thought what the fuck can you do with cups and tripods and shining cauldrons?” A small trail of leaves had escaped from the containing band that circled his head and was obscuring the sight of one small round eye. But his face below was as melancholy as ever and the half erection that was so permanent a feature of his appearance was clearly defined below the kilt.

  “I’ve told him about that language before. A man can’t wear a cup or a tripod or a shining cauldron on his head, can he? People would think it strange.”

  “People would think he was off his fucking rocker.”

  “The result is, the result is . . .”

  “You leave the cups and the tripods and the shining cauldrons at home and go out for a walk and nobody knows you’re the fucking winner.”

  “Good grief, I was going to say that, why do you keep interrupting? Your mother should have washed your mouth out with soap when you said bad words, and your father should have beaten you and put cold compresses on your member when you showed signs of being a potential rapist. That’s what my parents did and look at me now.”

  “It would take more than a cold compress,” Ajax the Lesser shouted, twitching his pelvis and leering obscenely at the audience. “It would take more than a team of wild horses.”

  “So we have devised a much more valuable prize, a circlet of leaves that is worn on the head in the way that my small friend is wearing it now. Give these good people a demonstration.”

  The little man paraded back and forth, the wreath of leaves at a rakish angle. “You can wear it tilted back for the more casual look,” he shouted in his reedy but penetrating voice, “or forward over the brow for when you mean business. The women will see you coming, they will see the wreath first, their legs will start loosening, no need for body language, the wreath will reduce them to a jelly.”

  “A man with a wreath on his head,” bellowed Ajax the Larger, scarlet with vexation at his partner’s lewdness, “a man with a wreath on his head—what was that?”

  Someone in the audience had asked a question that Odysseus did not catch. A look of incredulity had appeared on the large man’s face. “What happens when the leaves wither and start dropping off? Good grief, what kind of question is that? You must be as thick as two planks. You go out and get new leaves. That’s the beauty of this prize we are offering, you can, it can be . . .”

  “It’s infinitely fucking renewable,” Ajax the Lesser shouted at top volume. His head shuddered a little and the ragged crown slipped down further over his brows.

  “I was going to say that, why do you keep—”

  “No you weren’t, no you weren’t, shall I tell you why?”

  “Tell me why.”

  “Those words are not in your fucking vocabulary, that’s why.”

  Concepts again, Odysseus reflected as he proceeded on his way. Infinitely renewable, imperishable fame. These two buffoons had found a prize in keeping with the meanness which was just about all they had in common. Still, they provided some entertainment if nothing else; anything that took people’s minds off the wind for a while was to be welcomed. So far all the volunteers for the Games had been either from Locris or from Salamis—hardly surprising, seeing that these were the contingents commanded by the dwarf and the giant respectively. It did not seem likely that this new offer would change matters much.

  He heard the raised voice of the Singer and the vibrant cords of the lyre while still some distance off. It was the middle of the morning, not a time for peak audiences, but Odysseus was delighted to find that the Song was about the knife to be fashioned for Iphigeneia, this being just the sort of thing he had been going to recommend. He stood listening for a while, observing the faces of those in the audience. They seemed quite gripped, though there was not much to say for the moment, or so at least it seemed to Odysseus, the knife being little more than a project as yet.

  The subject of the Song was the purity of the metals that would go to compose the knife. By a cleverly managed shift, this became identified with the virginal purity of the royal victim. This wondrous knife would be forged from a fusion of tin and copper, neither of which had been worked before, never probed, never pierced, never penetrated. Sheet of tin and ingot of copper, different shapes and substances, smelted together to make a third element, finer, stronger, more beautiful than either. A mystery, how things could transcend themselves by blending, only the gods knew the how and the why, but think of the clays from which the hyacinth springs, think of the clear dew left by the thick vapors of night . . .

  He stopped here, raised his head as if listening to some echo, struck the lyre once and with the barest of pauses began the c
onventional preliminaries to the Song of the Argonauts, the heroes who sailed with Jason in the quest for the Golden Fleece.

  Before he had time to get far into the episode he had chosen, Odysseus moved forward through the crowd. The Singer fell silent as he drew near, keeping his face averted with the usual air of listening rather than seeing—though Odysseus, always alert to subterfuge, was sure he saw more than he let on.

  “I am Odysseus,” he said, bending down towards the Singer and speaking quietly. “We had a little chat a day or two ago, do you remember? I am glad you saw reason on that occasion.”

  “I did not see reason,” the Singer said, in his soft, rather hesitant voice—he was more fluent when he sang. “I was not given a reason. And in any case, there is no more reason in one Song than another.”

  “I can’t say I agree with you there. Do you mean to say all Songs are of equal weight and importance, whether they deal with the past, the present or the future, whether it’s a knife we are talking about or a hyacinth?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t be serious. Can one draw blood with a hyacinth?”

  The Singer sighed audibly. He had been annoyed by the interruption; and now, it seemed, he was to be lectured on the nature of Songs by one who knew nothing about them. “Do you think it would be easier to find perfume in a knife? Tell me how I can be of service to you.”

  “Well, I don’t want to interrupt your performance. I just wanted to tell you how pleased I was, in passing by, to hear you singing of this forthcoming sacrifice, it is exactly what is needed to maintain public interest in the event.”

  In fact he had been rather disappointed by the very brief treatment of the knife and by the way the Song had trailed off into poeticisms. No point in saying so, however. He had a close view of the Singer’s face in half profile and the obscured crystal of his left eye. No one knew how much he could see, whether he could see much at all. Light and dark and the bulk of shapes before him he must be able to distinguish—he had no one to guide him. Odysseus felt a certain awe mingled with his repugnance. The man was god-possessed, there could be no doubt of that. How otherwise could you explain line after unfaltering line, and all in meter? But it was indecent to make far-fetched comparisons like that. A knife, a virgin, a flower, dew. Obvious falsehoods—a knife was a knife. He was himself no enemy to metaphor; the controller of concepts must be a master of metaphor too. But he could see no point in idle figures of speech like these. They were transparently untrue, which in itself was offensive to an accomplished liar like himself. And what was the use of them? Whose ends did they serve? And the obscenely casual ease with which the Singer had passed from the destined throat to the voyage of the Argonauts . . .

  “Well, keep up the good work,” he whispered to the unchanging face. “We are very glad to have you on the team and I am not alone in thinking that. Next time you return to this topic, which I hope will be soon, can I ask you to mention the fact that the smith has now received Agamemnon’s instructions for the decoration of the knife? It’s going to be fantastic, the last word in sophisticated ceremonial weaponry. The whole length of the blade will be mounted with silver and this silver mounting will be incised in a pattern of foliage and birds—doves actually— and the incisions will be fused with the black powder produced by melting copper and silver together and adding sulfur to the alloy, to make a striking overall design in silver and black. Magical stuff, this black powder, it deserves a Song of its own. The smith is a Cretan and they are masters of it there. You might also dwell a bit more next time on personalities. I must say I found your account deficient in that respect. You know, the extraordinary generosity Agamemnon is showing in this matter of the knife, after the sacrifice it will never be used again in spite of the expense, it will be thrown into the sea, he has vowed that in the presence of witnesses. It’s very important that the army should have respect for the man at the helm. Unity and solidarity, that’s the only way to beat this wind. You might also put in a phrase or two about the role I am playing, my loyal support for the Commander-in-Chief, you know the sort of thing, a man of few words but sterling virtue. You get it right and I’ll see you are rewarded when we get to Troy.”

  The Singer listened to the words, heard the silence that followed upon them, sensed the speaker withdraw. Odysseus the trickster, the wrestler, the owner of the Great Bow. There had been the usual pattern: praise, detraction, the desired favor, the promise that always contained a threat. All who came to him with requests spoke with the same voice. Except the boy—he asked for nothing but the story. He had not come today. Perhaps he had been sent on some errand. He knew now that the boy belonged to Calchas, the diviner, and his name was Poimenos. Everyone else, however diverse the requests, always wanted something more than the story, something extra. It was not possible to keep everything in mind; some items were forgotten altogether, others were soon blended with old stories, yet others remained dormant for a time that might be long, like creatures waiting for the right weather. People like Odysseus never understood this underground life of Songs. He had sensed the other’s dislike, heard the forced friendliness of the tone. Song was distrusted by people like that, because they saw everything in terms of utility and Song escaped their control.

  There was some talking and stir of movement among the audience—his eyes were always strong enough to detect that. They were waiting for him to begin again. For a moment or two more he kept silent, passing his hand over the curve of the turtle shell that formed the belly of the lyre—a gesture of love. He raised his left hand to mute the two strings immediately below the yoke and struck the lower three with the bone thimble attached to his forefinger, allowing the strings to vibrate all through their length in a long, shuddering chord. When this died away he took up the story at the precise point where he had left it at the approach of Odysseus.

  On its homeward journey the Argo came to the beautiful island of Anthemoessa, home of the Sirens, three winged women with bird feet whose singing had such allure that mariners who heard it forgot everything, went crazy, plunged into the sea and tried to swim to the source of that glorious sound, only to be drowned in the treacherous swirls of the current. Captains would wreck their ships on the jagged rocks that fringed the island in a frenzied attempt to land. That island was a death trap, its reefs and currents specially designed to destroy any who approached. All round there were bodies floating, and the wreckage of ships. Yet once you heard that amazing music, you couldn’t resist, you lost all reasoning power.

  The Singer paused, remained silent for some moments before plucking again at the strings. Pauses did not break the Song, they strengthened it, he knew this well, just as he knew he was singing the truth. Any song could be a siren song, any island could be Anthemoessa. Songs could make people believe anything, do anything, go from loving to killing and back again, to weep over the corpse.

  The Argonauts too would have been destroyed, as so many before them, their bodies picked by the fish, their bones bleaching on the rocky shores of the island, had not quick-witted Orpheus seized his lyre, struck up a tune and burst into song, thus confusing the men’s ears with conflicting sounds until they were safely past.

  The Singer smiled as he sang, a thing very rare with him. It was one of his favorite episodes. Orpheus, the Great Singer, father of all singers, son of Oeagrus and the Muse Calliope, had saved them all, the music of life had prevailed over the music of death, it was a triumph.

  But a greater danger still awaited them. Before long they were approaching the zone of the Wandering Rocks. On their left was the promontory where lives Scylla, she of the six ravenous heads on necks so long that she can stretch them out over the water and snatch sailors from the decks of passing ships. On their right was the whirlpool in which lurks the monster Charybdis, of insatiable appetite, capable of swallowing ships whole. Imagine the sight, the fearsome sight, the stretching necks and slavering mouths on one side, the menace of the vortex on the other. The smallest misjudgment on the pilot’
s part in that narrow strait, and you can guess what would happen: one of two things, neither of them very pleasant. They knew the odds were against them, they weren’t stupid, but this was a crew of heroes, they sailed bravely ahead.

  At this moment, just as they entered the strait, the white-armed sea nymphs appeared, swimming alongside, guiding the ship. The men were almost distracted from the danger, seeing these beautiful naked girls sporting below them. The nymphs were led by the goddess Thetis, silvery-footed daughter of the Old One of the Sea, and this was because her mortal lover Peleus was on board. As we all know, the fruit of this union was the incomparable Achilles, Sacker of Cities, who is here with us on this glorious expedition to restore the honor of Greece.

  So the fair-browed nymphs stayed alongside the Argo as it now began to be tossed about in the turbulent waters that churn around the Wandering Rocks, in the shadow of smoke-crowned Aetna, where the god of smiths, Hephaestus, stokes his fires. As instructed by Thetis, they bore up the ship on either side so that it skimmed over the crests of the waves, avoiding the treacherous currents that would have dashed it against the rocks. And so, in a short while, the heroes were safely past and the nymphs, their mission completed, dived below the waves and disappeared from sight, though you can be sure that the Argonauts were sorry to see them go, having hoped they would come on board for a while and have a drink, now that the Argo was sailing in calm waters . . .

  The Singer played a run of quiet notes to reinforce the notion of calm after storm. It was always a good idea to dilute a happy ending with a dollop of nostalgia. Restored to safety after danger has passed, the heart has leisure for regrets and desires; and those nymphs must have been quite something. The adventures of the Argonauts were always popular, a series of mortal perils surmounted in the nick of time, ideally suited to serial treatment.